Summer's Horizon
by Ink On Paper
Summary: And there's a vast storm cloud rolling in on summer's horizon. . . . And there are no such things as coincidences. . . . Ziva keeps vigil with Tony as they wait for the seemingly inevitable.


**A/N: Between school and the seniors getting ready for graduation (I'm going to miss my senior buddies!) I have had little time it seems. But only fourteen more days (not counting weekends) until summer vacation. Which made me wonder if any of our favorite agents has ever noticed that the really bad things seem to always happen at one specific time of year? So that thought led to this. Now, I will forewarn you, I have writer's block (again) and it isn't affecting my lack of ideas -I have enough of those!- it seems to be targeting my ability to arrange my words into something remotely decent sounding. So I hope this comes across clear enough and flows okay . . . . I will now set a deadline for myself: All We Are will be finished by the season finale. AND I will finish those half-completed oneshots I have for the last few episodes. And speaking of episodes, last night? I swear, I'm on pin and needles. Please, please don't kill off Gibbs! Or Franks (I thought he was a goner.) And as for the rest of team, don't kill them either. To put it simply, I would like a fairytale ending. And now I will shut up on what may actually be my longest author's note ever. Keep the peace until next time (which will be SOON!) Kit. P.S. I'd love some feedback, but only if you want to. No requirements. **

**DISCLAIMER: I am ramble-y and NCIS-less. It is a sad truth.**

May 18, 2010:

"You are distracted," she acknowledges and he nearly gives himself whiplash as he spins around at the sound of her voice. She's leaning up against the doorjamb, mahogany eyes appraising him quietly, never leaving his face except to glance pointedly at the clock on the stovetop. Her face is flushed slightly and he supposes she just woke up, her hair escaping from its ponytail and her wrinkled nightshirt substantiating this theory. Ziva doesn't seem annoyed to be woken at this ungodly hour, and three nineteen a.m. is an unkind time to be conscious.

He manages to get his heart out of his throat because she really did startle him, asking meekly, "Did I wake you up?"

And she doesn't bother to deny this because the truth is that she barely slept at all with his tossing and turning. So she nods an affirmative, adding, "Yes."

"Sorry," he mumbles, sincerely, turning back around to tend to the cup of coffee he's nursing.

"Caffeine will not help," she advises sagely, shoving off her post with her shoulder and crossing the cold kitchen tile to join him at the little table. The chair legs scrape back and seemingly echo in the hollow silence, but Ziva ignores this, settling beside Tony.

He looks like hell, though she doesn't tell him. His sandy brown hair is tousled all over his head where he's been running his fingers through it absently. He has on plaid pajama pants and a white t-shirt with his housecoat thrown on haphazardly. There are shadows under his green eyes that are gazing distant and pensive and he's obviously lost in his headspace.

She reaches out and touches the back of his hand, two finger tips barely brushing his skin, but he relishes in the contact and the fact that he isn't quite as alone as he had thought. "What is bothering you?" she wonders aloud, trying to see past the exhaustion and haze that are clouding his eyes.

"It's almost summer," he states as if the obvious explains anything.

"You are losing sleep because summer is approaching?" and Ziva can't quite keep the incredulity from creeping into her voice.

And now he looks at her like she is the crazy one. "No. . . . Well, yes, I guess. Do you have any idea what this time of year is?"

The cogs in Ziva's sleep muddled mind begin to rotate and she suddenly understands the source of her partner's apparent insomnia. Because he's referring to transitional period of spring to summer when the ground bleeds scarlet and tears fall from the sky.

"Think about it, Ziva," he encourages softly. "Gibbs quit right before summer that first year you were here. And yeah, he came back, but the next summer brought that whole Grenouille fiasco. And then Jenny was . . . . then Jenny died the following year, about summertime . . . ." and he gets very very quiet and Ziva blinks furiously to keep her tears at bay.

"Tony-"

"I almost lost you last summer. Don't you see it? Every year. Every freaking year something goes to hell and we're left scrambling and shell-shocked. . . . . Something's off with Gibbs and then this whole thing with Laura Macy. I have a bad feeling, Ziva. And I . . . . I just don't think I can do another crisis this time. I just can't . . . ."

"Shh," she soothes, standing up and pulling his head against her chest, rubbing her thumb across his face. She strokes his hair as his arms wind around her waist, tugging her closer. And his ear is resting on her breastbone and he can hear her heart beating and it calms him.

But he cannot help but wait for the bomb to drop and the bullets to fire into the night. He's holding his breath for blood to spill and shouts to echo and people to die. He knows in his heart of hearts that someone he loves will die. Call it a gut feeling or call it common sense, but don't call it coincidence because he doesn't believe in those. Cats may have nine lives but special agents? They were lucky if they got a second chance. And they're all on borrowed time and have defied fate on one too many occasions. It's only a matter of heartbeats, really.

_And there is a vast black storm cloud rolling in on summer's horizon._


End file.
